Harvey S. Mozolak
the feeling is detested
the shivering walk through unseen
hanging spider webs
thin entanglements clinging
pasting their shuddering on face
hair and hands
that frantically wipe away at a foul cling
fighting all attempts at removal
is the brush of pinions felt
passing through angel wings
whose grace and glory burnish
with God’s holy cleansing
the edges of a contentment
hidden but trusted
trailing blood-rusted nails
among jagged splinters
and soiled grave linens?
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